**The Enigmatic Painting**
Emily sat in the back seat of the car, gazing out the window. Her spirits were high, as if it were Christmas morning or her birthday—though her birthday was in December, and now it was July.
Behind the wheel sat a stern, broad-shouldered man. Emily could only see the back of his shaved head, which merged into a thick neck. Something about him made her uneasy. The driver kept his eyes fixed ahead, never turning, as if his neck refused to bend. She wondered if he was even human—maybe a robot. She leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.
“Sit down!” he snapped without turning.
Emily flopped back into her seat and resumed staring out the window. Fields, woods, and villages flashed by. They overtook two cyclists, a man and a teen, who glanced at her through the glass. Her excitement returned. This was her first trip to another town, to meet grandparents she’d never seen.
“How much longer?” she asked.
“Not long,” her mother replied from the front seat.
“Why didn’t we visit them before?”
Her mother mumbled something indistinct.
“Is there a river there?”
“Yes. Everything’s there. Stop chattering. You’ll see when we arrive.” Her mother’s voice sharpened with irritation.
Emily fell silent. Lately, her mother snapped at everything, ever since Dad left. He’d packed his things and walked out.
*We must be going on holiday,* Emily thought. *Mum packed so much—even my favourite toys. My schoolbag too. Why bring that on holiday?* Questions swirled, but she didn’t dare ask.
She leaned back and hummed softly, testing one note, then another.
“Stop that whining! I’ve had enough,” her mother snapped. Emily clenched her jaw.
Soon, they entered the town. The car stopped outside a two-storey brick house.
“Home sweet home,” her mother said flatly as she stepped out.
The house looked old and grey, with two entrances. No garden, no playground—just two benches by the doors. The driver unloaded their bags, eyeing the house.
Mum asked him to wait, grabbed the suitcase, and marched inside. Emily hurried after her. The front door was wooden, peeling brown paint, not the secure metal one she was used to.
“Open it,” her mother said impatiently.
Emily darted ahead and pushed the creaking door open. They climbed to the second floor. Mum set the suitcase down to ring the bell—but the door swung open before she could. A tall, stern woman stood there, silent, watching them.
Mum stepped inside. Emily clung to her side, realising this was her grandmother.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Come in,” the woman said brusquely.
Emily didn’t move. A white-haired man appeared.
“This is your grandfather, Edward,” Mum said quietly. “Her clothes, toys, shoes are here…”
“We’ll manage,” her grandmother cut in. “Won’t you even have tea?”
“No, the taxi’s waiting,” Mum said.
And Emily suddenly understood—Mum was leaving her here. She wrapped her arms around her waist, pleading, “Mummy, don’t go! Take me with you!”
“You didn’t tell her?” Grandmother accused.
Mum didn’t answer. She pried Emily’s hands away, but the girl held on like a vice.
“I’ll come back for you. Stay with your grandparents for now. Enough!” Mum shoved her off.
Grandmother’s arms looped around Emily, pinning her close. She writhed, twisting like an eel.
“Go. Just go!” Grandmother barked, and Mum slipped out the door.
“Mum!” Emily screamed, but she was already gone.
“Emily,” Grandfather’s calm voice cut through. He stood tall before her, smiling kindly. “Come with me.”
He led her into a cosy room—old furniture, a piano against the wall, the quiet tick of a clock. Later, they had tea with pancakes. The best Emily had ever tasted.
Outside, she met two girls playing. “Are you living here now?” one asked.
“No, Mum’s coming back soon,” Emily said firmly, though her eyes burned.
September came. Mum didn’t return. Emily started school with those girls in Year 3B. Living with her grandparents wasn’t bad—they never shouted, unlike her parents.
Before Dad left, her parents had only screamed at each other. Mum started going out at night. Emily would stare out the window, eyes aching, until a taxi pulled up. Then she’d dive into bed, heart pounding—*Mum’s home*.
Eventually, she stopped waiting. Grandmother mentioned once that Mum was “sorting her life out.” Emily grew up untroubled.
When she was fourteen, Grandmother fell ill and died. She’d never seen a grown man cry before.
Just her and Granddad now. She learned to cook, budget, and care for him. After college, she married, and they moved to London. Years later, with a daughter of her own, she walked through an underground passage. A beggar woman sat against the wall, a sign pleading for help.
Emily hurried past—who knew what filth she carried?
“Kind people, please!” The raspy voice made her freeze. She turned, studying the woman’s face. Was it her mother? She fled before she could be sure.
That evening, she told her husband.
“I think I saw Mum today. Like a proper homeless woman.”
“Doubt it. Probably just someone similar,” he said.
She nodded—but went back to check. The beggar was gone. Maybe it was just her mind playing tricks.
Granddad had passed years prior, weakened after the family heirloom—a supposedly valuable icon hidden beneath an ugly painting—was stolen. Mum had taken it.
Life moved on. Emily never saw her mother again. Maybe she had forgiven. Maybe not. But she refused to be chained to the past.
*Forgiveness is freedom. Let go, and the future isn’t weighed down by what came before.*
